


Prompts

by hanschen_ril0w



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Bullying, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tumblr Prompt, i'm pouring my heart and soul into these y'all, prompt requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanschen_ril0w/pseuds/hanschen_ril0w
Summary: everything here is inspired by a list of prompts, and it's all posted on my tumblr (@hanschen-ril0w), but i'm posting them all here too because i'm pouring my whole heart and soul into these prompts and I'd like as much of an audience as I can get. enjoy <3





	1. 47+67 - Georg/Otto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 - “stop being so cute”  
> 67 - “you’re cute when you’re angry”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by @literallymelchior. <3

“And I’d never _written_ a key change before. So I was like, you know, like, I guess you just slap a couple chords in the middle there…” As if for emphasis, Georg brought a hand back to the keys to play a few chords in a row. “Or you do that thing where you play a bunch of chromatic stuff that sounds wrong until you get to the next chord and you’re like, ‘ _oh_!’ ‘cause it’s cool and it’s actually right, because it’s Alan Menken and _why_ wouldn’t you trust Alan Menken?” A few notes with his right hand, oddly flat and sharp before they twisted up into a major chord.

  
Otto reached up a hand, lazily taking a few of Georg’s curls between his fingers. “Okay, so how’d you do it?”

  
“So I tried the chords, ‘cause the chords are more straightforward. But the thing is, I wanted to go from G major to A major, and coming up with the transition wasn’t as bad as I thought.” Georg brought his left hand up, securing a foot on the sustain pedal and turning to give Otto a smile that would have been wildly conspiratorial had Otto known a single goddamn thing about music and pianos and composing. So Otto gave a light laugh in return, tilting his head and moving his hand just a little to straighten Georg’s glasses.

  
“And it turned out…” Georg trailed off, positioning his fingers and beginning to play.

  
And god, sometimes Otto regretted quitting piano lessons when he was nine, because _god_ , he wanted so badly to understand how Georg _did_ all this. What the words meant, how the chords worked, where all the harmonies came from, how and why and everything in between. It was like there was this well somewhere deep inside him full of ivory and rhythm and melodies, and Otto was addicted to it. Addicted to this. Addicted to _him_.

  
Wrapping an arm around Georg’s waist, he leaned his head gently on his shoulder and watched him play.

  
“It’s coming up,” Georg’s voice cut through the music, and his fingers only faltered a little as he turned to press a quick kiss to the top of Otto’s head.

  
And oh, _there_ was the key change.

  
Georg finished with some dazzling mess of notes, then reached to drag a finger down the keys to end with a marked finality on one low note. And this alone would have been enough to drive Otto mad, but then Georg turned to smile at him again. And god. Kids had always given him heat for being too nerdy or too tall or wearing glasses or trying too hard, but if they could see Georg now, oh _god_ , they would see how his eyes lit up and how his smile was just crooked enough to be adorable and how his little laugh lines were showing and how he was so beautiful and all the insults would just fall, silent, back down their jealous little throats.

  
Otto grinned back, and they both seemed to hold their breath in the silence. “Stop being so cute.”

  
“Stop being so gay.”

  
“Me?” Otto laughed, feigning shock. “ _You_ ’ve had a hard-on for Bach since you were twelve.”

  
Georg shook his head, reaching up to rest a hand against Otto’s cheek. “Since I was _eleven_ ,” he corrected, tilting Otto’s chin up to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

  
“You’re adorable,” Otto contested, persistent despite his weakening will. It was unlikely that Georg even cared what he was saying, anyway, because he’d already raised his other hand to cup Otto’s face and he’d already started deepening the kiss, moving his lips with a lovable enthusiasm that made up for his lack of extensive experience. Otto relaxed against him, eyes lidded in his bliss, and pulled him closer. He parted his lips, lost in that dizzying motion of kissing and being kissed, and let his hands wander across Georg’s back and sides and front because _god_ why didn’t people ever tell this boy he was so damn _cute_ ー

  
The two leaped apart with a panicked yelp as Otto’s elbow hit a few keys.

  
Georg gave a muffled sort of groan, shutting the piano lid.

  
“What chord was that?” Otto asked.

  
Georg shot him a glare with no real fire behind it. “I’m never letting you near my piano again.”

  
Otto grinned. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

  
“That chord was D major. Because you’re a major dick. You’re an asshole.”

  
Otto slid closer again, leaning up to kiss Georg’s nose as lightly as he could.

“You’re a major nerd.”

  
“You’re so gay,” Georg fired back, grabbing Otto by the collar and kissing him, slow and open-mouthed, full on the lips.

  
“No homo though.”

  
“We’re definitely homo.”

  
“Yeah.” Otto smiled against Georg’s lips, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “Definitely homo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please drop by the comments or come talk to me on tumblr @hanschen-ril0w!


	2. 1+13 - Georg/Otto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 - “give me a chance”  
> 13 - “don’t leave me”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one has a focus on bullying— nothing graphic, but if that upsets you, i just wanted to put it out there beforehand. take care <3

There is something inherently comforting about familiarity. There’s the familiarity of an old family recipe, or a childhood friend, or a meaningful place from some faded memory of years gone by. There’s a human necessity to find a home in all that’s known and to find solace in the dependability of something.

  
There is something inherently comforting about the familiarity of cruelty.

  
Georg hasn’t really felt surprised in years. Not at the words. Not at the taunts. Not at the faces, the kicks, the threats, the jokes, the hate. Not even at the pity. There’s just something so fucking familiar about it all, about how the cruelty always comes back like some twisted boomerang coming to hit him again and again and again and again until he breaks. Because he’s breakable. And he is breaking.

And he deserves to be broken.

  
And if the pain is familiar enough, maybe he needs it.

  
Yeah, definitely. It’s all he’s ever heard, isn’t it? That people like him deserve what they get even more than they think they deserve what they’ll never have. People like him who need glasses because their eyes are fucked up and they need super-nerd goggles to see. Yeah. People like him who are a little too tall and need to be tripped so they remember that they’re just mutant versions of the dirt beneath better people’s feet. Yeah. People like him who don’t celebrate Christmas or go to mass and need to see those horrible marks and those terrible jeers to be reminded that they’re filthy and hated and wrong. Yeah. People like him who pour their soul into stupid things like playing piano who need to be hit against one so they don’t forget that their passions are an absolute joke and aren’t worth a dog’s shit. Yeah. People like him who are disgusting “half gay” freaks who should never have been born who need to be locked in a janitor’s closet to remember where they came from and where they belong. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. It’s all too familiar. Especially after word got out about his pitiful, gross, closet-case crush on Otto Lammermeier. It’s all too fucking familiar.

  
So it’s not a surprise at all when the faceless crowd of shallow nobodies kick him to the ground, step on his glasses, rip his new music book to shreds, and say all their usual pointless nothings while they hit him until he caves.

  
Just another day.

  
It’s been maybe forty minutes since they left, and he’s spent maybe thirty of those on the floor of the third floor bathroom willing himself away. Willing himself into the tiles. Willing himself into oblivion.

  
Just another cruel, familiar day.

  
The door opens. Georg hides his face and wishes with every aching bone in his body for whoever it is to just have some semblance of mercy and leave him alone in silenceー

  
“Georg?”

  
Oh.

  
“Holy _fuck_ , Georg, oh my god.”

  
Georg can’t even manage a laugh to express all the crushing irony in the situation and the hatred of the universe for giving him _this_ life and _this_ day. He just looks up between his fingers.

  
Otto looks genuinely horrified, and Georg almost feels sorry for him. “Again?”

  
Georg doesn’t answer.

  
“You’re bleeding.” Otto barely looks at the ground before he slides down the wall right next to Georg, staring in pure terror at his face. They’ve been best friends since the first grade, when Georg spilled a juice box on Otto’s shirt by accident and Otto, giggling, tossed his own juice box on Georg in return. Since the first grade, when Otto would sit next to Georg every day and invite him over at least twice a week. Since the first grade, when it was easy to love someone because it was easy to live. It’ll be a shame if all those years go to waste. “They broke your glasses.”

  
Georg doesn’t answer.

  
“Georg.” Otto seems to be swallowing his panic, but it keeps coming back up in shallow breaths. “Georg, please.”

  
Georg can’t answer.

  
“Listen.” Otto sounds strange, his voice echoing off the walls as he turns a sickly shade of gray in the pale fluorescent light. “This. This is fucking terrifying. It’s like, every time I see you, you look like you’re dying. It’s, like, it’s like you’re some kind of ghost, and I’m…” Otto’s struggling to come up with the right words. It’s alright. Georg has the time to wait. Otto continues in a hushed, strained whisper. “I try to get them to stop, and I try to get to you, but you’re gone. Are you gone? Really, _god_ , Georg, you won’t let me… I’m, like, and you’re a million miles away and I’m trying, I’m trying so fucking hard to get you back to shore, ‘cause you’re, like, you’re gone, and how can you be gone? You can’t just be _gone_. And I want to take all the times you _smiled_ and you _laughed_ and you _joked_ and I want to just bring you home.”

  
Georg can’t answer.

  
Otto’s fighting something. He’s blinking and kind of coughing and the look in his eyes makes Georg feel something scratching in his throat, too. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He swallows, taking a breath. “You’re not gone. You can’t be gone.”

  
He reaches out a hand to touch Georg’s shoulder, to try.

  
Instinctively, he flinches away in one jarring tug of his stupid rag-doll body out of Otto’s reach. He can take the pain. He can take a kick. He can take a hit to the face. But that sympathetic touch makes him so fucking sick.

  
Otto’s voice comes out this time in a sharp, muddled exclamation. “ _Georg_. Give me a chance.”

  
A chance to offer a hand? A chance to take some of the fall? The incidents always happened when Otto wasn’t around. And Otto was never around him at school anymore, because he took different classes and did sports in the afternoons and had different lunch periods and it wasn’t the first grade and it hadn’t been in ten years. There were no chances to be given. Georg had never, ever stood a chance.

  
“Give me a chance,” Otto repeats, and Georg doesn’t stand a chance.

  
The sobs come before he falls, but Otto is there to catch him. He is breakable. He is breaking.

  
He doesn’t deserve to be broken.

  
His whole body is limp, numb, a host unto the hurricane of so many years of bruises and ripped music books and shattered glass and _breaking_. He’s shaking uncontrollably, sobbing, choking on the gasps of raw _hurt_ that tear out of his throat like fire. Sobbing. Sobbing. Sobbing. Otto is shaking, too, and even though he’s functional enough to have the sense to take Georg’s broken glasses off his face, he’s far from composed. And so they rock, one, two, three, four, Georg clutching onto Otto as he hasn’t clutched onto anyone in five years and Otto holding Georg like a lifeboat on the way to shore. Years and years of familiar, familiar cruelty come rising up and falling out in splintering cries, and there is something finally so comforting about holding and being held. He is holding onto Otto in so many ways it’s impossible to count. And there is something _so fucking comforting_ in this, because it’s hard to live, but it’s still so, so easy to love someone. It’s still so, so easy to love him.

  
“I’m not gone,” Georg chokes out, and Otto buries his face in his chest. “I’m not gone.”

  
Otto sniffs, trying to collect himself. “I need to get the nurse. You were bleeding. You’re hurt.”

  
Georg tightens his shaky, pathetic grip around Otto. “Don’t leave me.”

  
“You’re hurt.”

  
“Don’t.”

  
Otto hesitates, and just seeing his face, seeing his worry, seeing his care, all of it is so familiar. He’s so familiar. He’s comfort, he’s familiarity, he’s life and he’s living.

  
“I’m here.”

  
And the love is familiar enough that Georg knows he needs it.

 


	3. 62 - Hanschen/Ernst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 62 - “i want to protect you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by anonymous.

Fear is a fire. It burns low and crackles high, from coals to flames to ashes to dustー unforgiving and dark as oblivion, blinding and unvanquishable as hell. It rises in a thick, suffocating smoke, pouring out into the air until each breath is like drowning and every swallow is like poison. It settles in clothes, in eyes, in mouths, in souls. It glows.

  
Fear has been burning without end for months now. It has been rising since Moritz’s last moment. It has been pouring out since Melchior’s expulsion. It has been settling since Wendla’s final screams, the screams of someone kept in the dark with no light but that one unalterable glow.

  
It spreads like wildfire now, too.

  
From the moment Ilse received word of Melchior’s imminent return home after escaping from the reformatory to the moment the news had reached every remaining soul he’d grown up with, a fear that weighs as heavy as dread and tastes as musty as dust has glowed. It is reflected in the ghostly pale light of the moon, shifting like flames in the deep blue wind.

  
“ _Ernst_.”

  
Currently, Hanschen is standing in the road in this anxious moonlight, huffing in scathing impatience as Ernst twists his wrist once again out of reach.

  
“You want to let Melchior go through with this?” Ernst’s voice is a harsh whisper, thick with stubbornness and the beginnings of tears. “You can stand by, stay here soundly while he endures this? How are you not concerned for his reaction, or for his _safety_ ー”

  
“What can I do?” Hanschen nearly snarls, challenging him. “What can _you_ do?”

  
“We could intercept him. We could tell him honestly what he can’t find.”

  
“And deprive him of his own discovery? You know Melchior. Nothing you could say could dissuade him, and even if you knew where to find him and even if you told him what’s happened in his absence, he’d want to be in the cemetery tonight. It’s his will.”

  
“‘His own discovery’? ‘His will’?” Ernst’s eyes are wide. “This is cruel. This is _cruel_.”

  
“ _We_ aren’t cruel.” Hanschen reaches again for Ernst’s arm, ensuring that the latter doesn’t attempt to run to the graveyard without warning. “You aren’t cruel to stay away. Our lives are cruel. His life is cruel. Wendla’s death is cruel. _We_ aren’t cruel.”

  
“We’re negligent.”

  
“But we would be out of place.” Hanschen is holding his breath. He won’t release. There is no release. “There are some things you can’t fix. However noble your plans are, this is _his_ meeting to attend. His, Wendla’s, and Moritz’s.”

  
“And just leave him alone?”

  
“It isn’t our place.” There’s something hollow in his tone, some question of whether they should have found their place before Moritz pulled the trigger or before Wendla disappeared under the guise of anemia. There’s some nagging question like a thorn twisted deep in the boys’ sides, ringing like broken church bells through their minds. What is their place? Do they have a place? “It isn’t our meeting.”

  
And Ernst seems to acquiesce, his arm falling limp in Hanschen’s grip. He exhales. “I suppose you’ll wish now to send me home.”

  
“Not necessarily.” Hanschen lowers his fingers, holding Ernst’s hand rather than his forearm. “I doubt with your restlessness it would do you any good.”

  
Ernst swallows, and it seems to pain him. “Walk with me?”

  
The glow of fear dances in the moonlight across Hanschen’s face, but he gives a decisive nod, letting Ernst lead him up the road and through the lingering smoke of anxiety. On they walk, fingers intertwined as they make their way through dusty paths and years of childhood that now feel stolen, corrupted, perverse. They move in silence. Past the church, where the darkness whispers silver nothings in their ears. Past the vineyard, where the memories of firsts and lasts watch them walk through the vines and branches. Past the willows, past the sprouting flowers, past the stars and to the oak tree that shivers in the cold.

  
Hanschen squeezes Ernst’s hand.

  
They collapse, sinking onto the ground against its trunk.

  
“It’s all so much,” Ernst whispers, barely above a breath. “Everything is so much.”

  
It’s as if this flips a switch in Hanschen, setting ablaze the sudden aching need to hold Ernst closer. For all the fear, the unease, the trepidation, there is this intense connection to Ernst that grows each day and strengthens each second. Through the flames, through the smoke, through the falling ashes, they cling to one another like vines waiting for the dawn of spring, and all the natural affection and intuition and care is sweet and addictive like wine. Of course part of this stems from the mutual need for comfort in the face of adversity, but the realest, most genuine facets of what they share come from a need for each other _specifically_ , for Hanschen and Ernst as individuals and as people growing together in fear and in love.

  
“I know.” This is all Hanschen can think to say. He wraps his arms around Ernst, leaning his whole body into him as if the touch is safety itself. Ernst leans in just as eagerly, holding Hanschen simply to hold him and to be. “I know.”

  
“I still think of Moritz every day,” Ernst says softly. “We’re so _young_ , Hanschen. Do you ever think of that? How much we have left to live?”

  
Hanschen gulps, waiting for him to continue. His heart beats in his ears.

  
“And Wendla. Where are they? Where do you suppose they are?”

  
“They’re in the graveyard,” Hanschen replies. His answer is simple, and he knows Ernst will reject it, but there is so much ash in his soul that he can manage little more.

  
“Their bodies. But not _them_.”

  
Hanschen lifts his head from Ernst’s chest, meeting his eyes. He rests his hand over the boy’s heart, feels it beat, feels how unfathomably _alive_ he is. “There.”

  
Ernst closes his eyes. “I miss their light.”

  
Hanschen sighs. He aches from the weight of the statement, from the albatross around his neck and the relentless question of whether Ernst’s guilt for living on past their deaths is rational. On whether his guilt for celebrating Ernst’s promotion over Moritz is rational.

  
Does rationality even matter when two children, barely fourteen, have died?

  
“I do, too.”

  
Ernst curls into Hanschen. They are vines. Ever intertwining.

  
Hanschen welcomes the touch, and he turns, taking Ernst’s face in his hands and kissing his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids. “I want to protect you.”

  
Ernst’s eyebrows draw just barely closer together. “And I you.”

  
“From everything.” Hanschen lowers, kissing Ernst gently on the lips in a gesture of comfort and unfaltering reassurance. “It’s so much. It’s all so much. I want you to never doubt your safety and the stability of what you are and what you have, and I want…”

  
Hanschen trails off. Ernst kisses him again, soft as a golden ember. “We can protect each other. We’ll protect each other.”

  
Hanschen holds to Ernst’s back, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I…”

  
Ernst smiles. “We will.”

  
Hanschen speaks into Ernst’s neck, his muffled whisper hoarse. “I love you.”

  
Ernst tightens his hold on Hanschen, quietly guarding against the blazing fear smoking out the night. “I love you, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos, drop by the comments, or come talk to me on tumblr @hanschen-ril0w, it’d mean the world to me <3


End file.
